The Beast of the Camargue by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

that class.
    â€œI have to leave you now, M. de Palma. The tasters’ meeting will be over in a few minutes’ time, and we have to make our choices by this evening.”
    They went out onto the patio and strolled toward the tennis court and swimming pool. A damp, slightly sour smell hung in the air. A tractor appeared at the far end of the drive, pulling a huge chrome-plated tank.
    â€œBy the way, why did you go to see the police in Tarascon instead of the local gendarmerie?”
    â€œBecause the last time I saw my husband was in Tarascon, not far from his office. In fact, I just followed Chandeler’s advice. He doesn’t have much time for the gendarmes.”
    â€œHis office?”
    â€œYes, he has a huge one, just by the theater. I was going to suggest showing it to you, if it isn’t too late.”
    â€œI don’t think that’s essential. I …”
    â€œYou don’t believe me when I say he’s dead, do you? I suppose I don’t seem sad enough for you …” she said, drawing out her words.
    He ignored her remark.
    â€œWilliam doesn’t sound very German. It’s more of an English name.”
    â€œYes, in German it’s Wilhelm … My mother-in-law was English.”
    She moved closer to him.
    â€œWe should talk about your payment. I thought that a sum of …”
    â€œI don’t want anything, Mme. Steinert.”
    He spoke so firmly she was left speechless.
    A sound of tinkling bells echoed off the walls of the barn. In the hills just above the farmhouse, a shepherd was leading his flock to pasture, shouting incomprehensible instructions to his dog.
    â€œLook, M. de Palma, my meeting will be over at about six o’clock. We could meet at seven in front of the theater in Tarascon. If you agree, of course …”
    â€œI … alright.”
    The shepherd came to a halt. De Palma could have sworn that he was observing them.
    â€œSo you have neighbors?”
    â€œThat’s Eugène Bérard, an old shepherd. You wouldn’t guess it from looking at him, but he’s ninety-two and he’s a poet, a real, very traditional Provençal poet.”
    De Palma took his eyes off the hills and went over to his car. On the way, he noticed a huge rectangular container carved from limestone. He stopped to look at what he first supposed was an old water trough.
    â€œWhat is this thing?”
    â€œIt’s a genuine Roman sarcophagus. My husband discovered it in the Downlands.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œSome fields we own on the other side of the main road. Nothing of any real interest, apart from their size. About thirty hectares, if you include the woods and hills. We grow a bit of lavender there, that’s all.”
    By the Fairy Pines, de Palma turned left then drove toward Eygalières, away from Maussane. He went far enough to be out of sight from any curious eyes in the farmhouse and parked his car in a hollow in the road.
    In front of him was a tiny valley, dug out by wind and rain storms, a mineral chaos in which only green scented grasses, a few stubborn mastic trees and oaks could survive.
    He plunged into this network of pathways and corridors that usually ended in limestone gulches, overhung with rock faces pitted with skulls of stone, their empty eye-sockets staring out to the void.
    From the far side of one such block, de Palma could hear the bells of Bérard’s sheep, but the echo stopped him placing them exactly. He clambered over a large ledge overgrown with brambles and at last emerged from the canyon. An arid slope dotted with charred tree trunks led up to the foothills of the Alpilles.
    Suddenly, a sharp whistle and a booming voice echoed off the rock face. De Palma spun round, with the feeling that someone was playing a trick on him.
    â€œ
Matelot, toque lei
.”
    He saw nothing and could hear only the rhythm of the bells that was speeding up as though on an infernal